


A Chance at a Do-Over

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coda, Episode: s12e13 Family Feud, First Kiss, Gavin Knows What's Up, Letters, Love Confessions, M/M, Old Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10004888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Dean doesn’t turn around as Cas reads, except for the furtive glances in which he catches Cas reacting to each careful stroke on the page. Sometimes his mouth parts a little, sometimes his eyebrows taper. But the most intense reaction comes when he’s near the end of the page, and Dean knows he’s gotten to the most important part. Dean’s read the letter a few times before reading it to Cas, and has had the same reaction every time:Cas’s whole face emits a sort of release, like a mane of hair being freed from the elastic grip of a hair tie.“Dean,” he breathes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This season has been SO inspirational for fan fiction writers. Blessed be.

 

_Dear Cas,_

_This is_ not _a love letter._

That’s totally a lie. At least, it _would_ be if Dean ever writes Cas a letter.

He knows if he ever sat down to write something so archaic, yet so strangely intimate, he would take every possible route with the ball of his pen _away_ from eminent confessions. Steering clear would be taken to a literal term, because he would eventually crumble the sheet of paper and grab a new one, and if anyone asked, he would say he had a spillage and has to start over. Only, the spillage would be coming from his heart—a wound even he wouldn’t be able to mend with weeks’ old whiskey and dental floss.

Would, would, would.

That word gets old after a while.

Dean looks over at the letter dated today, 1723, again and smiles. It came in a small, spotted envelope with the kind of cursive on the front that’s characteristically neat and long length wise—it’s basically calligraphy to anyone who’s existed in the twenty-first century for some time.

Dean was even half-expecting there to be a wax seal stamp when he pulled it from his mail slot, which, is an actual thing, apparently. They receive mail. The same guys who used to rely heavily on sleeping _and_ working out of their car when they couldn’t find a motel room for the night. The same guys who pay for dinner using their earnings from a series of bets with the local bartender. The same guys who can’t settle down because of the literal demons on their backs.

As long as they don’t get a notice from one of the credit cards they use, Dean’s fine. Or get called for Jury Duty.

Gavin and Fiona are happy—or, well, as Gavin puts it, “as happy as we can be on a doomed ship.” And as long as they go out Romeo and Juliet style, no matter how “execrable” the film adaptation is. Gavin goes onto say—aside from _yes,_ he’s caught up with the masses—that the transition was the easier part for him, going from 2017 to 1723, despite the massive whiplash.

Dean felt the same way being back in Purgatory— _green screen_ Purgatory, anyway. Yes, was miserable, between the tit-melting humidity and the fleshy smell and the paranoia, but it’s also the one place he felt the purest. Benny told him that he was never any good up here, anyway. Dean started tearing up with him, in part that the same feeling was digging a heart-sized hole into his gut.

That split second of emotion came spilling out by accident, but it was okay, given what he had to do next.

_It’s surreal, seeing her for the first time in, well, hundreds of years—and without the whole vengeful spirit thing. She’s just as I remembered too, but maybe love is blinding. But if love blinds me, I don’t want to be that man who sees a world without her again. Is it bad to say she hasn’t aged a day? I feel like Noah seeing Allie for the first time at the carnival._

The first time Dean saw Cas again, he thought Martin Creaser may have to save him a room at the Hunter’s Inn and Never Out, because _it’s not possible._ Cas’s hand slipped. But then he kept seeing him. Even Sam tried to conceal that look in his eye, though Dean knows him better than his drinking hand—the one that says _I’m worried about you, please get some rest_ , but Dean couldn’t rest.

Then Cas poofed himself behind him in what would usually be the most annoying and totally inappropriate way because he could have been using the bathroom for… other stuff, and Dean just remembers feeling robbed—robbed of words, and robbed of natural beauty because Cas is a gazillion years old, and in that moment, he _still_ looked good with all that outgrown beard that was so long it practically reached out to him like hundreds of little individual fingers, and those eyes somehow still so blue.

_I tried to tell her as much, but she was quick to give me a quizzical look._

_I sometimes forget she doesn’t understand pop culture references, because that term hasn’t even been coined yet._

“I don’t understand,” Cas says. He’s been sitting on the edge of his bed, listening intently as Dean reads the letter aloud to him. (Aside from the internal commentary, of course.)

Dean looks up. He’s not sure why he’s standing across from Cas, rather than sitting, but he feels more comfortable that way, anyway. “Which part?”

“Not a part in particular.” Cas pauses to lend out a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful letter. I’m glad Crowley’s son is living his life… as long as he can, anyway. It’s just, why am I hearing this?”

Maybe he’s been wrong this whole time: Maybe the words have been surfing his tongue. Maybe, they’ve been getting caught into the wave, over and over—sucked into a vortex of cool regret.

Dean swallows back the thought like the sudsy aftermath of the wave. “It’s nothing,” he says, shaking his head as he starts to fold the letter back into its neat crease.

Cas scoots out from his chair. “Dean—”

“No, you’re right,” says Dean. “Good for them. They found it, you know?” Cas’s eyes are pressing and blue, like the wave that keeps him at arms’ length, so Dean turns the other way as he continues, “How many chances do you get at a do-over? I mean, whenever we were zapped someplace like a fly on a topographical friggin’ map, we could _see_ how everything played out, but we could never actually change anything. Fate’s always had us by the short and curlies, no matter what we did, who we wanted to…”

Dean jumps when he feels a tentative hand on his shoulder, just like the night they went back in time to stop Azazel. That was the first time Dean saw something other than angelic constipation etched on Cas’s face. Instead, he saw remorse, and even a little bit of empathy.

Dean’s sure Cas is looking at him the same way now. He’s such a dumbass, no matter what Cas tries to argue.

“May I read the rest of it?” he asks from behind Dean.

Dean’s hesitant for a moment, but he nods as he holds out the paper so Cas can grasp it. Dean tries not to think about it too much when Cas’s index finger glides against the back of Dean’s fingers.

Trying not to think has been getting increasingly harder these days.

Dean doesn’t turn around as Cas reads, except for the furtive glances in which he catches Cas reacting to each careful stroke on the page. Sometimes his mouth parts a little, sometimes his eyebrows taper. But the most intense reaction comes when he’s near the end of the page, and Dean knows he’s gotten to the most important part. Dean’s read the letter a few times before reading it to Cas, and has had the same reaction every time:

Cas’s whole face emits a sort of release, like a mane of hair being freed from the elastic grip of a hair tie.

“Dean,” he breathes.

Dean licks his lips as he turns around fully with a small, hopeful smile. “Yeah?”

Let it be known, Dean Winchester is a _great_ kisser. Cas just happens to catch him completely off guard.

 

 

_February 24, 1723_

_Dear Sam and Dean Winchester,_

_You probably thought you’d had the Luck of the Irish on your side and never hear from me again, right?_

_Well, I’m Scottish, remember?_

_Anyway, I’m writing this to you as I’m about to board the_ Star, _so yes, this is my last letter._

_Fiona and I are happy—as happy as we can be on a doomed ship, anyway. As long as we go out Romeo and Juliet style, I’ll die a happy man. No matter how execrable the film adaptation is. By the way, since when did a theatre turn into a place to watch a play on a big television screen? Back in my day…_

_Oh man. I just felt my missed three-hundred years catch up with me. The transition was the easier part, surprisingly. But going from 2017 to 1723 causes massive whiplash. Not recommended._

_It’s surreal, seeing her for the first time in, well, hundreds of years—and without the whole vengeful spirit thing. She’s just as I remembered too, but maybe love is blinding. But if love blinds me, I don’t want to be that man who sees a world without her again. Is it bad to say she hasn’t aged a day? I feel like Noah seeing Allie for the first time at the carnival._

_I tried to tell her as much, but she was quick to give me a quizzical look._

_I sometimes forget she doesn’t understand pop culture references, because that term hasn’t even been coined yet._

**_Alright, now down to business. I know this can’t be the first time you’ve heard this, Dean, and I’m not going to turn into my father and give you the whole “strap on your suspenders” speech, but I am going to lay down the law: I don’t know who it is you’re in love with, but stop your moping and pursue those feelings, because I can guarantee, whether they reciprocate or not, having lost love for quite some centuries, the guilt of never knowing will consume you faster than any natural disaster._ **

**_I won’t make that my dying wish or anything, because then I would just be more of a morbid son of a bitch than I already am, but it’s something to keep in mind. Maybe you can even read this letter to them, if it helps to give you courage._ **

**_Wouldn’t that be impressive? A two hundred-ninety four year old letter with one too many ink stains and words so flowery, they may as well be overflowing with pollen. Who knows, it might be romantic._ **

_Seriously, though._

_Thank you, two. For everything._

_Sincerely, Gavin_

 


End file.
